MIST MAIDEN ©
By Robert Ipcar

CHAPTER THREE

Dried meat indeed!   

Just the thought of eating animal flesh was revolting enough. Already Clerci felt suffocated by the overpowering odor of milling beasts and wood smoke that wafted through the village. She attempted to hold her breath as she urged her pony forward, making wiry passage between wide-eyed mules laden with sooty carcasses of dubious identity. She managed to duck as a flying coil of rope unwound in her direction, its frayed end whisking perilously close to her face
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“You there! Get that toy horse outa here!”
      
Ordinarily she would have screamed back with a rudeness to match, but her pony lurched sideways, a mule’s hind quarters striking full on. It was all she could do to maintain her seat—not to be pitched off into the dung-laden muck. Clerci yanked Scepter backward, then turned in the saddle, readying a stinging rebuke.
      
No one gave her a second glance!
      
Finding it impossible to distinguish her adversary from any number of mud-caked handlers, she closed the distance between herself and the redheaded officer instead. Her first impulse was to dismount, plant herself directly in his face. After all he was the stranger here—a sea borne trespasser. The Vargel Peninsula lay under Windreach protection.
      
Doubtful that he’d even sought permission to land!
      
Still she had been away the whole winter, far removed from the gossip of the Hall. Could this force of men be here at her father’s invitation? Would the Sisters in their isolation have known of an impending crisis to the north? Perhaps they had forgotten to mention it to her...  like her betrothal! She chose to remain in the saddle...
      
The better to tower over this stranger.
      
“We’ve a Mist Maiden behind you, Keihl, with a Schalian Lancelot in attendance.” The old man in the cape winked at her as he spoke, pushing back a shock of stringy white hair that blew across his weather-beaten face. The young officer turned in annoyance.
      
Perhaps he was a prince…
      
His body mail was almost invisible beneath the tan surcoat, its fine woven quality affordable to only the very wealthy. Likewise the razor-edged Brolian throwing dagger that was conspicuously sheathed in a heavy black belt. Yet the thin gold edging on his black leather boots was understated to say the least though admittedly elegant in its simplicity despite the caked mud. For the barest moment she detected a faint spark from his left hand, a jeweled ring of some sort.
      
“Lady Lychtly of Windreach,” spoke Clerci, deliberately, emphasizing the title Lady for his benefit. The young officer looked at her oddly, a momentary uncertainty fleeting across his features.
      
“Lady! Not really.” His green eyes flared with suspicion.
      
“Your own name, good Sir,” she shot back. Did he mock her age? Let him know who had manners here. “Or must I wait for your father to introduce you?”
      
The officer looked aghast at his companion. His expression relaxed…
      
“Keihl Tarnyan of Freechell.”
      
His words held a softness about them, an accent which she associated with those travelers from the Middle-Lands. Indeed his fluid inflection made her own northern speech harsh to her ears—her phrases sharply accented, tumbling about like pebbles in a tin pail.
      
“My companion... Hasche,” she went on, stumbling over her escort’s name, still irritated at the man’s rudeness. For the first time in some seventeen years, she wondered if the Schalian possessed a surname.
      
“Fifty seventh grandson of He-Who-Signed-The-Accord,” the Schalian rumbled proudly.
      
Of course! How could she have forgotten?
      
“Chy, honored Schalian! Chy donsche debrre.”
      
It was the old man who rendered the Schalian greeting—pride giveth strength—his pronunciation faultless.
      
“Chy, Old One,” Hasche intoned, “Chy ne molbar debrre”—let pride not blind the eye!
      
“Haven’t spoken your tongue in decades,” was the enthusiastic reply, the stranger’s face breaking into a crinkly smile. “Then again I haven’t heard my own given name for so long I’ve quite forgotten it. They call me Old Madge.”
      
“Your ear for my language is to be commended,” Hasche acknowledged.
      
“My training as a Bard,” Old Madge replied. A darkness passed across his countenance, erasing the joviality. “Chy ne molbar debrre—let pride not blind the eye. More truth than poetry in those words considering our present circumstances.”
      
“Your unexpected arrival on these shores perhaps?” Hasche asked casually. Though Schalians were perpetually wide eyed—having no eyelids—his question was not an innocent one.
      
“We’re moving on, I assure you,” Keihl snapped, obviously impatient with this interruption.  “You’ll soon be rid of us.”
      
“I’ve a few questions first,” Clerci insisted. She was chagrined to see he stood almost eye level though she was still mounted.
      
Keihl slowly blew through his lips...
      
“You’ll have your filthy little village to yourselves by sundown.” Before she could respond, he shoved the ledger into the old man’s hand and made as if to walk off.
      
“You’ve the responsibility to account for all the meat, Keihl,” Old Madge insisted, gesturing with the ledger. His tone indicated an ongoing argument. “There’s no telling how much these seamen will hide aboard ship if we’re not careful.”
      
“You worry about petty palfrey? We’re missing out on all the fighting! By the time we cross the Thyre, my father’s forces will be halfway up the canyon.”
      
“A good commander accepts his duty, Keihl,” Old Madge countered. “An army drawn deep in enemy territory needs to secure its food supply by alternate routes.”
      
Clerci looked from one to the other...
The Thyre lay a good two days north beyond Neul’s Pass.
      
“Keep the damned ledger,” Keihl exploded. “Casting us ashore here in the middle of nowhere was all your doing, Madge. Obviously my father rewards you well to see to my safety and comfort. You, Schalian! I’ll tolerate no more of your weaponry!” Just as quickly he strode off. “Lutus; Rogaar! We leave within the hour.” 
      
For once the two cavalrymen made no asides, spurring their horses into the melee, yelling at the handlers to pull into line. One of the three vessels had already cast off, its headsails slowly drawing the bow from shore. Was its hold full of stolen meat? Clerci couldn’t help but wonder though she should have cared less. No, it was his problem! Yet she gazed after the officer—Keihl his name was¾wondering as to his true character...
      
He had not mentioned that he was a prince.
      
She turned back to the old man, a dozen more questions tumbling in her mind. Her reference to Windreach had provoked no response other than disinterest.
      
“Your being here is an act of war,” she declared, dying to see his reaction. Though she realized there were even more desert riders lurking about the village, she no longer felt personally threatened.
      
“Yes, yes, so it must appear, young lady,” Old Madge agreed affably. “As to our legitimacy here? My opinions are my own.” His look darkened. “But nonetheless my loyalty lies with young Tarnyan over there. I swore to his grandfather I’d protect him from his father’s follies.”
      
She was at a loss to respond.
      
“Strange is it not,” he observed bitterly, “that those who plot war regard young men as merely chess pieces to be sacrificed. Ah, but look here, both of you...”
      
She watched in amazement as Old Madge tucked the ledger beneath one arm and whisked a parchment map from a fold in his cape though no pocket was visible. For the barest moment Clerci thought she saw something alive cling to his fingers, then drop quickly back inside—something spider-like.
     
The old man squinted at the faded depictions. “My humble talents as a diviner have vastly diminished over the years,” he apologized. “I’m forced to depend on this ancient work.”
      
Her own eyes teared in sympathy as she watched him struggle to read the timeworn calligraphy.
      
“Now there’s a road leading north... and a village we must make by nightfall... What’s its name? Ah, here... Neul’s Pass I believe...”
      
“Road?” Clerci exclaimed. “It’s but a narrow trail along the east shore cliffs. I’ve traveled it a dozen times. Neul’s Pass is at least a full day’s ride on horseback. We’re well in to mid-morning.”
      
“Aye, there’s no proper scale...” Old Madge scratched his head in dismay as he reexamined his map. “Strange I never noticed that before.”
      
“You’ll have slick going after last night’s rain,” she continued. “You’ll never get all these beasts up to the pass by sundown. Even if you were to push through the night, it would take you well into tomorrow morning.”
      
“Not to mention the night stalkers drawn to you by the dozens,” growled the Schalian, suddenly coming to life. “You’ll have water harpies and ridge dragons swarming all over this stinking meat.”
      
Old Madge stared at his map, half listening...
      
“Windreach, you call it now...” he pondered aloud, seeming to have lost interest in his destination. “You’ve lands here which predate the Burning: Normaria d’e Whast d’e Windreach—lands which survived the melting of the Old World’s ice and the subsequent rise of the sea.”
      
Letting the parchment map roll up upon itself, he looked to her sharply, raising one hand in salute, palm outward...
      
“Become a believer for this night only!”  
      
His cry and stance that of the Bard before the gathering, a summons to those who would sail a sea without equal; drift for an evening on wings of fantasy. She could feel a pulse beginning to throb in her ears, like the gentle patter of the hand drum preparatory to a telling.
      
His dark blue eyes bore into hers...
      
The milling beasts and sagging rooftops faded behind him, replaced by tongues of fire shrouded in wavering orange smoke. It was as if she had been transported back to the Great Hall at Lychtly, the dancing flames of the hearth weaving his words into living images before her eyes. No, not the Great Hall...
     
From darkened skies a struggle waged
On wings of steel
The Good defend       
While Evil swirls across the land
To blacken souls of Saint-like men

Sickly green clouds mushroomed above a barren landscape devoid of vegetation; entire villages, settlements, even silvered towered cities inexplicably drawn skyward by the writhing gasses. Pools of muddy water steamed where rivers ran only seconds before...
      
She wrenched herself from his spell.
      
“The Ninurta, a tale for children,” she scoffed. Yet her scorn had a hollow ring.
      
It was more than a child’s tale…
      
“A Urrel are you?” Old Madge nodded approvingly. “I thought so! You were able to break free of my telling.”
      
“I’ve heard the Ninurta too many times to be captivated,” she countered, afraid he would question her further. “It’s but a fable; a recounting of the Burning; a warning that though that Evil be repressed, the Dark One is far from repentant.”
      
Old Madge’s eyes flashed…
      
“A fable? Better you said a prophecy! Do you think that the ancient chroniclers had little more to do than frighten innocent children? Know that this saga you refer to as the Ninurta has its roots in a much older epic, that of Ninurta the Sumerian, the mighty warrior who battled the Storm God Zu on behalf of all mankind.”
      
“But Ninurta wasn’t a man,” Clerci protested.
      
“Indeed he was! How could you forget the mortal hero who wrested the stolen Tablets of Destiny from Zu’s grasp; secreting them in a place of safekeeping unbeknownst to even the very gods to whom they belonged.”
      
“A telling I’m unaware of.”
      
Old Madge shook his head sadly. 
      
“No I don’t suppose you would remember. But perhaps...” He paused, gauging her reaction. “Perhaps we could have used a Ninurta during the time of the Burning. As it was, the lesser heroes of the day fell pray to megalomania, turning their mighty weapons against each other. Yet for the Dark One too, the battle was indecisive. The Tablets of Destiny remain hidden to this day.”
      
“The Burning almost ended it for mankind,” Clerci insisted. She knew the final verse by heart...
     
As waters rose
The flames were quenched
Melting ice from glaciers ran
Tower and temple lay awash
Ruled by fish instead of man

“Those so called dark hours saw the birth of my people!”

She turned to Hasche in surprise.
      
Schalian for all their human origins were usually unreceptive to a telling, their minds too logical to accept separate realities no matter how fleeting.
      
“Ridge dragons, harpies, giant sloths,” Old Madge recounted in a tired voice. “Of course you Schalians are one of nature’s success stories, but then again, your people have waged a war or two in your time.”
      
“Only in defense...”
      
“Ah but of course! So they all say.” Old Madge’s tone betrayed a grim satisfaction. “We have an expression in the south: first know the price asked by he who rides to your assistance. Ah, but no matter...”
      
He fumbled with the map once again.
      
“I request that you serve as guides, at least until we reach Neul’s Pass. Even now vessels of the Middle Kingdoms make their way into the Thyre. Their objective, I believe, is to secure the trade route leading through the Sabett Canyon to the Kagaar Citadel.”
      
The capitol of the Northern Unification...
      
“Schalian territory is neutral,” Hasche flared. Again his gill slits darkened. “My people will defend that neutrality with their lives. You are fools to think we would allow you to invade the Thyre.”
      
“Chy ne molbar debrre,” my Schalian friend. You said it yourself by way of greeting—let pride not blind the eye. Unfortunately King Willrush Tarnyan accepts the word of his trusted advisors without question.”
      
Old Madge turned to Clerci expectantly.
      
“I’ll not serve you,” she stated, not waiting for him to repeat his request—afraid of him now. “You’re on a mission of evil.”
      
“Evil is relative, my dear. Somewhere on this very peninsula is an Abbey whose Order is said to practice witchcraft—they who claim to be the keepers of the harmonic rings. What more evil to the ear of a Middle-Land’s aristocrat than disembodied voices which speak of democratic ideals; where common people are to be given a measure of self-determination to govern their own affairs.”
      
Was he aware of her schooling?
      
“What would your Middle Lands’ Gods know of freedom?” She was appalled at her own boldness. “Within the harmonic rings there sings a voice which speaks of a single Supreme Being who treasures the good in simple men; who speaks of the value of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
      
“Do you think I care one way or the other?” grumbled Old Madge impatiently. “Gods or God, it’s all irrelevant. Life’s paths are predetermined though for the moment you’ve not yet discovered your true direction. Like Keihl you only perceive the obvious. Ah no matter... the time is fast approaching if you’re up to the test.”
      
Sister Myrrh’s words came to her.
      
“I beg to differ with you, Sir. It’s we alone who choose our fortune.”
      
Old Madge actually smiled.
       
“Would that were so, young lady. I’ve no more a mind to go tramping through the mud at the rump of some mule than you would wish to marry while still a child.”
      
Did he know of her betrothal too?
      
“I’ll not betray my people,” she flared.
      
“Would you serve your people by remaining here while your domain is threatened?” For once he appeared truly irritated. “Do you think that those of the Kagaar will give in without a struggle? Should it go badly for the forces of Freechell, they would scorch all Windreach in their retreat.” He turned away suddenly, striding back toward the quay.
      
“Wait,” she shouted after him. “I’ll make an offer.”
      
He turned...
      
“You must teach me something of the talent of telling if I remain with you until Neul’s Pass.”
      
“Done,” he said quietly as he moved on.
      
He had expressed no surprise; as if he’d expected her to call after him; as if he had been slyly leading her on all the while. She in turn looked away in dismay, feeling frustrated at having somehow given in.
      
“A good ploy, my Lady,” rumbled the Schalian, his words slurring at the lower range of audibility. “We’ve no choice but to join them if we hope to warn our people. The Shore Way is roundabout while the trails to Lychtly Hall and Thyre Bay are shorter from Neul’s Pass.”
      
“Break from them now,” she urged. “I’ll remain here and distract them. My highlands pony is too stocky to outrun those long legged desert horses; your jyetta can spring overland through the trees. A Schalian cutter could be sent up the Thyre to warn my father.”
      
“I cannot abandon you, my Lady. My foremost obligation is your safety. Once at Neul’s Pass we’ll both head for the Thyre. Perhaps as the Old One says, this invasion is already set in motion. If so my people’s water drums have already sent their warning up river. Yet the Sea of Laments in unpredictable. If this fleet has been delayed there may yet be time.”
      
“Hasche...”
      
The wildest thought of her life occurred to her.
      
“Hasche, what if this night I don my falcon fell and summon a sentinel. I could fly to Thyre Bay and warn everyone.”
      
The Schalian worked his jaw, a great gulp of air blowing back through his gill slits—a sign of deep thought and interest.
      
“Is that possible, here on the trail?”
      
Now that she’d suggested it, she wondered herself. She had scarce made but one hesitant flight—under Brother Timothy’s supervision. “I’ve no Warden’s chair to rest in like they have at the Abbey, but that might be just a convenience...”
      
“Have you considered that this is not Windreach proper, my Lady. Surely if there is a sentinel overhead, it may serve some other loyalty. You may encounter danger.”
      
“No, I think I would key into a proper bird.”
      
Yet she wasn’t sure…
      
There had been so many questions she had not thought to ask back at the Abbey. And the Brothers had been loathe to break their rigid itinerary to debate theory.
      
Yet one more complication...
      
The sentinels were sight and sound oriented, their nighttime vision illuminated in greens and grays; their hearing painfully acute. Yet had they a voice? How could she possibly communicate with the Schalians at Thyre? The sun broke through the mists, bathing the tiny harbor in a play of light and shadow, the warmth against her back filling her with a burst of optimism.
      
“I’ll find a way, Hasche.”
      
She was willingly consorting with an enemy...
Even if but for a day or so.
      
Strangely enough, the prospect excited her.

                    (Chapters 1 - II - III)